by Sara Ramsey
Josephine handed her a fan from the depths of her valise. “You must not let yourself be overset, ma petite,” she said, even though she sounded overset herself.
Madeleine cooled herself with the fan, trying to calm her nerves. Ferguson had made an outrageous proposal — but he did not seem to know who she was, and she must keep him from guessing. She would go to every social event her theatre schedule would permit and sit primly with the other ape-leaders. She would also fulfill her duties as the twins’ chaperone, but would only call on them when Ferguson was too occupied to stumble upon her.
She might prefer the duke’s touch to a more garden-variety scandal — but she was much too smart to seek it out.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, Madeleine awoke with the dusty, bitter taste of ashes in her mouth and a scream in her throat. Shivering, she pulled the heavy quilts closer to her face. Unless the cold was truly unbearable, she refused to sleep with a fire in the grate. When she did need a fire, she slept badly, waking often and reminding herself that the crackling of burning wood was not something to fear.
There was no fire this morning, but the nightmare had come anyway. It came less frequently than it did when she was a child, and she sometimes wondered if it would fade away altogether, lost with most of her memories of France. But it always came back.
Madeleine turned onto her side and curled around one of her pillows. Her eyes felt gritty, but she no longer cried after the dream. And last night’s dream was only a brief series of fragments — the memory of Josephine crushing her hand in her grip as Pierre drove them off into the night, of her family’s chateau overcome by towering orange flames. Her parents no longer came to her in her nightmares. She hoped they were at peace, their bones resting quietly somewhere in Paris.
She had much bigger problems than her long-dead parents. Ferguson’s attempt to make her his mistress topped the list, followed closely by what would happen when he recognized her — or what her life would be if she survived the theatre to become an unnoticed spinster again. But the old nightmare didn’t care about her current problems, just that there were questions she would never know the answers to.
When, after months in England, Uncle Edward and Aunt Augusta had told her that her parents would never come for her, she had a thousand questions and could not find the voice for any of them. They answered some without waiting for her to ask — she would live with them forever, and they already loved her as much as they loved their own children. She never needed to fear being sent back to France alone.
But others they could not answer. Those questions still haunted her, even though her memories had faded. She no longer thought about her parents except after her nightmares, or occasionally when she was standing at the edge of a ballroom feeling like she did not belong. She would never know how they spent their final moments, whether they thought of her — whether they thought their duty to France was worth leaving her alone.
Madeleine rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. The room, painted a delicate blue, was less ornate than her old nursery in southern France, but it suited the woman she had become. She didn’t mourn what she might have had at the French court of Versailles, even if it would have been nice to have a life of her own. She should have been grateful — she was grateful — that her aunt and cousins loved her, but it wasn’t any easier to accept that she would spend the rest of her life dependent on their kindness.
At least she had finally done something wholly for herself. It wasn’t something she could build a life on — but she could hope that the theatre would give her something else to dream of.
And if she didn’t dream of the theatre, she would prefer to awaken from dreams of Ferguson’s kiss instead of old nightmares of France.
She had never spared a thought for how she would react if a man propositioned her; it was too ludicrous. But now that it had happened, she knew how she would react — with shock, dread... and longing.
Perhaps she only felt longing because it was Ferguson. There was something about his eyes that drew her in, made her believe he could cherish a woman for more than her body.
And didn’t it say everything that she was more offended when he asked her to chaperone his sisters than when he tried to take her to bed?
There was the briefest of knocks at the door, and it swung open before she could gather the energy to respond. Josephine entered, carrying a pitcher of warm water. Amelia followed, with what was sure to turn into a lecture for the ages.
Madeleine loved them both — and didn’t want to face either of them. Her cousin perched on the side of her bed, deep lines creasing her forehead. “Are you ill, Maddie? You never stay abed this long.”
Madeleine tried to pull the covers over her head, but Amelia’s position kept them in place. “I don’t see why you had to come in so early,” she muttered.
“Early? It is nearly noon. Mother’s holding an at-home this afternoon — did you forget? You surely aren’t planning to make me face the wolves alone.”
If anyone could handle the wolves, it was Amelia. “Tell her that I am ill again.”
Amelia shook her head. “If you keep pretending to be ill, she will be very worried. She said this morning that we should remove to Bath so that you can take the waters. Not that I would mind escaping for the season, of course, but Bath’s entertainments are even more hideous than London’s.”
“I can’t go to Bath,” Madeleine exclaimed, finally sitting up against the headboard.
Amelia reached out to squeeze her hand. “I know you detest the place as much as I do. I’m glad the play is over so you can ‘recover.’”
Madeleine sighed. In her waking moments, obsessing over Ferguson, she forgot Madame Legrand’s demands. “The play isn’t quite over, Mellie.”
Her cousin’s grip on her hand tightened. “I thought last night was the final performance? I was sorry to miss it, but you know Mother would have had kittens if neither of us accompanied her to that dinner party.”
“Madame Legrand has other ideas,” Madeleine said.
When Madeleine finished sharing the details of Madame’s threats, Amelia stood to pace the room, sidestepping Josephine on every pass. “I cannot believe that woman has betrayed you! You must tell Alex at once. If anyone can find a way to change Madame’s mind, it is he.”
“Unless Alex wants to kill her or burn down the theatre, I see no alternative,” Madeleine said. “Can you imagine if Alex knew? He often says he is too lax a guardian — this would just give him proof. He would probably send me off to rusticate for the next twenty years.”
Amelia grinned. “Rustication would be preferable to London, though. I have begged him to let me stay in Lancashire for at least the last five seasons.”
“Yes, but you have your writing,” Madeleine retorted. “What would I do in the country? Put on theatricals for the pigs?”
Amelia did not respond. Josephine took the opportunity to order Madeleine out of bed. While Amelia paced, the maid gave Madeleine a cold compress for her head and tea for her dry mouth.
“You know I am not truly an invalid,” Madeleine said to Josephine.
“Yes, but with the poor sleep you’ve had, you look as sallow as an Englishwoman. You are not yet an Englishwoman, are you?”
Madeleine laughed despite herself. “I have lived here for twenty years, and my mother was English. Perhaps a sallow complexion is to be expected.”
“You are French. And you will get out of bed in case the red-haired duke calls for you today. At least his mother was Scottish. The Scots are allies of the French, are they not?”
“That was decades ago, Josephine. There are no more Jacobites, and if there were, they would not like Napoleon.”
“Pfft.” Josephine did not like Napoleon any more than she had liked the revolutionaries.
Amelia stopped pacing. “What does Rothwell have to do with this?”
Madeleine pressed the cold cloth to her eyes, closing herself off from Amelia’s suspicious
gaze. “He could call. I am chaperoning his sisters, after all.”
“You wouldn’t look guilty if that was all you were doing,” Amelia said. “What happened last night, Maddie?”
She did not want to say the words, did not want to share the best of last night, or make the worst of it real by saying it aloud. But Amelia would not accept silence. “The duke encountered me and Josephine leaving the theatre,” she said, still not meeting Amelia’s eyes.
“What?” Amelia shrieked.
“Shh. You’ll draw Aunt Augusta’s attention,” Madeleine hissed, the danger forcing her to drop the compress and glare at her cousin.
Amelia collapsed dramatically into Madeleine’s armchair, but she lowered her voice. “Did he recognize you? Have you been discovered? Did he do anything...untoward?”
Madeleine paused. Amelia was her dearest friend, more of a sister than a cousin, and they had never kept secrets from each other before.
But for some reason, even though she would tell the truth in all other things, she wanted to keep her memories of Ferguson’s kiss to herself.
“No, he was a perfect gentleman,” she lied. “And he did not recognize me.”
Josephine gave Madeleine a dark look but didn’t dispute her statement. Amelia was too shocked to notice. “Are you sure he didn’t know you? He did dance with you at Aunt Augusta’s ball. Surely that is unusual.”
“Because no one ever dances with me?” Madeleine asked, bristling despite herself.
Amelia sighed. “No, you goose, because he is a rake whose one saving grace is that he has never ruined an innocent.”
Madeleine felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t Amelia’s fault she had so many suitors, and she knew her cousin would have given them all to Madeleine if she could. “I’m sorry, Mellie. I am just worried about the next month. But Ferguson aside, I’ve no idea how I shall keep acting without Alex and Aunt Augusta finding out. I cannot keep feigning illness. What am I going to do?”
They debated options as Josephine dressed her, wrapping her in a pretty pomona-green afternoon dress that highlighted her eyes. They finally settled on what they felt was the best course of action. Amelia and Madeleine would insist that they wanted to go on a reducing diet and so could not attend any dinners. Then, Aunt Augusta could attend whatever dinners she wished, retrieving the girls before the usual round of balls and parties. As long as Madeleine returned to the house before Aunt Augusta did, they could keep their secret.
“This is the most harebrained scheme you’ve ever dreamed up,” Madeleine muttered as Josephine fussed with her half-boots.
Amelia looked smug. “It’s genius.”
“It’s suicide,” Madeleine said. “Do you have any idea how hungry I shall be?”
“We shall ask Josephine to sneak us sandwiches,” Amelia said. “And it’s only a month — and only four nights a week at that. We’ll be done in no time a’tall, and with better figures as well.”
Madeleine looked at her maid. “Josephine, what do you think?”
“If eating sandwiches in your room will save you, I will bring them every day. But you must take care about the duke. Flatter him, flirt with him, until he will do anything you ask him to. If you do not succeed with him, he is a bigger danger than your aunt.”
Madeleine’s breath caught in her throat. The idea of flirting with a rake like Ferguson...
She did not even know how to flirt. At least her utter lack of feminine wiles would make him lose interest in Madame Guerrier, even if a small part of her wished she had more talent in that area.
Josephine tweaked a last piece of hair into place. “You should eat before the callers arrive and you start this reducing diet. But please take care. The marquis and marquise would not want you to live with the Stauntons forever, but they would not want to see you ruined either.”
Madeleine tried to push Josephine’s last statement to the back of her mind as she and Amelia went down to lunch. Josephine had gradually stopped discussing Madeleine’s marriage prospects over the past few seasons. She knew Madeleine did not like the topic, and she probably gave up hope that her behavior would ever change. But if she was more concerned about Madeleine’s potential suitor than Madame Legrand’s threats, her hopes for Madeleine’s marriage were rekindled.
It was a shame, really, that those hopes were destined to be dashed.
But it was more of a shame that she would likely see Ferguson again before making any decisions about what she wanted — or determining if his kisses were worth the danger.
CHAPTER SIX
Ferguson pulled himself up into one of his father’s many well-sprung carriages, glad that it would only take ten minutes to reach the Stauntons’ townhouse. He was impatient for reasons that went beyond his sisters’ debuts, even though those couldn’t come fast enough. After his encounter with Madame Guerrier the previous evening — and what he discovered about her after she left — he was oddly eager to be out in society again, if only to ferret out the woman’s identity.
It would have been faster to walk. Salford House was on Berkeley Street, almost on Berkeley Square, only five minutes on foot from his Piccadilly mansion. But since he was using the twins as a pretext for visiting, it was more proper to drive.
Maria and Catherine were twenty-one, born to the sweet doormat the old duke had married when Ferguson’s mother died. They sat on the opposite seat, draped in black, blonde hair pulled into tight chignons and blue eyes firmly fixed out the windows. Except for their hair, they had little in common with their mother, who had died almost two years earlier. In fact, their contained poise and stubborn chins reminded him of his full sister, Ellie. He hoped the chins were an anomaly. He had never been able to manage Ellie, and he didn’t want to try again with two of her. But a bit of spine would be nice, if only to make them more attractive to suitors.
The coach was enclosed and the view unremarkable, but they studiously avoided his gaze. Other than a single awkward breakfast earlier in the week, when he surprised them on his first day back in London, he had not seen them in a decade. Even before that, he hardly knew them. He was shipped off to Eton less than a month after his mother died and he avoided the nursery — and memories of the happier years he spent there with Ellie — on the rare holidays when he came home.
He knew their names were Catherine and Maria, but it was a shame no one thought to introduce one to one’s own siblings. He could not tell them apart — and if they never spoke, he might never discover which was which. Imagine if he agreed to an engagement for the wrong one?
He cleared his throat. They ignored him.
Finally, he said, “Ladies, you do know that I shall not hurt you, correct?”
This finally got their attention. They swiveled toward him, each giving him an identical once-over. Then, the one on the right said, “We do not know that with certainty, your grace.”
So at least one of them had a bit of backbone. He smiled. “I’m your brother, not a distant cousin. You may call me Ferguson.”
“You may as well be a distant cousin, for all we’ve seen you,” the other one said.
They both had backbone. And from the sudden mutinous cast to their mouths, they would use it with him.
Perhaps backbone wasn’t a quality to be prized in younger sisters. “I had my reasons for staying away, I assure you.”
If he thought his quelling tone would dampen them, he was wrong. “Your reasons were serious enough to leave us to our own devices with Father?” the right twin asked.
“If you were so unhappy in his house, you should have married. It would have at least been an escape.”
They both laughed, a bitter sound incongruous with their innocent appearances. “And where should we have found husbands? We still haven’t debuted. Other than walking in the park, we never leave the house.”
“Surely you go shopping, or calling on other ladies?”
“Father wouldn’t let us,” they said simultaneously. The twin on the right continued. “With you turning in
to a notorious rake, Henry drinking himself to death, Ellie making herself the most scandalous widow in London, and something clearly off about Richard, Father was determined to keep us from misbehaving. He found it easiest to keep us at home.”
The duke’s children had not lived up to their breeding. Richard and Henry, the unstable sons from his first wife, had raced toward death since they were in their teens. Ferguson and Ellie, products of the duke’s only love match, were cast aside when their mother died and spent a lifetime making their father pay for it. After his third marriage, the duke declared that his first two children were too strange, his second pair too emotional, but his future children would obey him. The twins must have inherited his stubbornness, though, despite his attempts to corral them.
He sighed. “Well, my dears, I am quite ready to find you husbands. We’re going to see your new chaperone now. With any luck, she can get you out and affianced within the month.”
If they were mutinous before, now they looked beyond ready to toss him out of the carriage onto the nearest deserted island. One of the twins rubbed her temples; the other eyed him as though she would happily endure another few months of mourning to be rid of him.
Finally, the more murderous one spoke. “I don’t see why you left London. If you are as much of a tyrant as Father was, you must have gotten along quite well.”
The other one patted her knee. “Kate, there’s no need for insults.”
Ferguson’s relief at discovering their names almost made him forget that Kate had compared him to their father. “Kate, Maria — my apologies for speaking so suddenly. I thought you would want to be married.”
“Because all young women want to marry?” Kate scoffed.
“You do want to marry,” Maria pointed out. “Or at least, I want to.”
“But not when I haven’t even debuted! I haven’t been to a pleasure garden, haven’t seen the Court, have never even once been...”
